


with you i serve / with you i fall down

by starblessed



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Blood and Injury, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Description, Inspired by Taylor Swift, Introspection, M/M, Major Character Injury, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:40:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26092747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: Gene dreams of an epiphany.
Relationships: Babe Heffron/Eugene Roe
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	with you i serve / with you i fall down

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [himbowelsh](http://himbowelsh.tumblr.com/)!

His heart is pounding like a drum, and an odd bitter taste coats his throat… but Babe’s hand is warm in his, and his smile is like the first breeze of summer.

“You’re worried again,” Babe mutters, reaching up to cup his face. Gene leans into it unconsciously; it’s base instinct, as natural as muscle memory. His body just knows how to breathe; it knows how to pump blood through his veins; and it knows to relax when Babe Heffron touches him.

“Nah,” Gene mutters, shaking his head just to curve into Babe’s palm. His lips brush the calloused pads of his fingers. Babe runs his thumb over Gene’s lower lip, almost thoughtful, taking in the chapped skin and faultlines. When he sighs through his nose, the breath caresses Gene’s cheekbone, and it takes effort not to smile.

“You don’t gotta be,” says Babe, grazing his fingers along Gene’s jawline. “You’ve done enough today. You’re gonna do enough tomorrow. No matter what, Gene, it’s always gonna be enough.” Amusement crinkles at the corners of his eyes, as though he’s completely unaware of the way his words wash over Gene, soothing burns he didn’t even realize were raw. “Ain’t like you know how to slow down anyway.”

That isn’t true. The world always slows down when he’s with Babe… maybe that’s the  _ only _ time. Things seem clearer, it’s easier to exhale, and the weight on his shoulders no longer feels fit to crush him. Babe makes things easy. Gene has no idea how, no idea why, but he’s got a talent for it.

“I would,” he says softly. “For you.” Babe stares at him, eager eyed and attentive in the way that always draws more words out of Gene, even if he’s not sure how to say them. “If we — could spend a whole day like this, you know? Laying outside in the grass somewhere, with the sun beatin’ down on us… you get a blanket, I’ll bring a picnic. We can make a whole day outta it.”

“Make some memories,” Babe agrees. His voice is soft, like this is the best idea he’s ever heard. “Not sure I trust your idea of a picnic, though — last time you had me try those, what were they called —“

“Boudin balls.”

“Those  _ balls _ , and I felt my goddamn soul leave my body!”

The memory of Babe, face bright red and cheeks streaked with tears, flickers back like a flashback. Gene snorts, bowing his head to hide the grin that Babe catches anyways.

“It ain’t funny! I’m Irish, Gene, you gotta have a little mercy for me.”

“I feel for you every day, Heffron,” Gene declares. It’s the truth.

Babe settles back down again. His hand is still in Gene’s hair, cupping the back of his head almost absentmindedly. Gene is hyper conscious of every touch, every sensation… the tickle of grass under their arms, the sun slowly roasting their exposed skin, a summer sweetness on the light breeze, the blood coating his hands like rubber gloves —

Wait.

What?

Gene gapes at his palms. They glisten in the bright sunlight, a sickly crimson hue. As he watches, a slow trickle runs down his wrist, into the crook of his elbow; tiny droplets fall onto the verdant grass like rain.

“Gene,” Babe’s voice echoes, softly… and then, it’s sharp as a pin. “ _ Gene _ .”

Gene looks up. Babe is still there, with the sun in his hair and freckles standing out stark against his cheeks. When Gene looks down at his hands again, they’re clean.

“Where’d you go, there?” Babe asks, a hint of laughter in his voice. Gene knows him too well, though, has got the symphony of Babe Heffron memorized like sheet music in his head. He doesn’t need to speak his worry for Gene to hear it.

“No— nowhere.” He shakes his head slowly, a little dazed. His knuckles are dry, and his skin looks washed out against the summer sun — never mind how quick he’s always tanned on the bayou. Grey is better than red, though. Tentatively, he reaches over, brushing his fingertips against the skin of Babe’s bare bicep. He half expects to leave a train — crimson track marks against pink flesh — but all he feels is Babe’s warmth, all he sees is the caress as Babe leans into it.

“It’s okay, Gene,” Babe says softly, and in that moment it really feels like it is.

“I’d like to come here all the time,” Gene says suddenly. The words rise to his lips unbidden, but they’re not less true for it. Here, at the top of a German hill, with wildflowers all around them. Here, with Babe at his side, and any danger far away. Here, basking in the sun and sweetness with the one person who makes it all feel real.

Oh, yeah. Somewhere up there, there’s a heaven, and it’s gotta feel like this. Gene would stay forever if he could

Babe considers his words with pursed lips and a tiny shrug. “Yeah. We could. We can definitely come back here again.”

“I wanna stay here,” Gene says impulsively. “With you. It don’t mean anything if you’re not here with me.”

Babe stares at him for a long moment. His gaze is impossibly soft.

“Ah, Gene,” he mutters, and sucks in a deep breath.

It rattles in his lungs like a trapped bird, wet and drowning and desperate.

Gene sits bolt upright. “Babe!”

He’s still wheezing, chest still seizing up with every shallow breath. Gene knows pneumonia, knows what it sounds like when a lung has collapsed or somebody’s drowning in their own blood — he knows all the sounds, all the sensations, the identical terror in every person’s eyes when they realize —

Babe turns towards him, and for a split second, Gene sees him — wild-eyed and palming at his chest, face flushed and leaking like an overripe plum. Then he blinks, and Babe is there, staring at him like he’s the one in danger.

“Hey, Gene. Hey. Take it easy.” Babe’s hand finds his shoulder and grips right. It steadies Gene somehow, anchoring him to earth. It feels real, even if nothing else does. “That’s it,” Babe praises, always earnest. “Take a breath for me, huh? Just breathe, Gene.”

“Something ain’t right,” Gene says, and feels sick with the truth of it. “Something — somethings wrong, Babe.”

“Nothing’s wrong here.”

“Something is —“

Babe pulls him close without warning, cutting off his earnest protest. Gene falls against his chest. As soon as he’s close, he finds himself clinging to him, practically hanging off of Babe’s shoulders as he fights to ground himself. It feels so good just to be close to him; the pounding in his head recedes, and he can think clearly, see clearly. A lung full of Babe’s musky scent soothes him more than anesthetic ever could.

“Don’t go there, Gene,” Babe urges, his voice low and hoarse. “You don’t gotta go back there yet. We got time.”

Slowly, the urge to tremble ebbs out of his limbs. As his fight-or-flight reflex settles, Gene is able to pull away again. Not too far, but far enough to look Babe in the face and offer him a weak smile.

“All the time in the world,” he agrees. “Or at least ‘til anybody comes looking for us.”

“Nah, they ain’t gonna do that.” Babe’s grin is crooked, like a lopsided piece of porcelain. “I told everyone back there that I got a hot date, and not to even say my name all afternoon. Bill called me a dog, y’know, and Muck said he was gonna tag along to show me up, but I said, ‘first one to bother us’s gonna have to me’.” “Nobody’s gonna bother us here.”

“What if they need me?”

Babe’s silent for a moment, taking Gene in; his eyes are darker than Gene remembers.

“ _ You _ need you,” he finally says. “Y’know, Gene, you take care of everybody else… but who takes care of you when you need it most?”

_ No one. _ That’s the easy answer, and the one he can’t bring himself to admit. No one is supposed to. He’s not sitting at his kitchen table, legs too short for his feet to touch the ground, scribbling crayon drawings while Maman fixes him a snack. Gene’s been a big boy for a long time, now. He’s always looked after everybody else better than they knew how to take care of him. A part of him even prefers it that way… or maybe he  _ did _ , back when his own thoughts weren’t so loud, and the weight of silence so heavy. It’s gotten harder to be alone ever since he tasted what it feels like  _ not _ to be.

“You don’t need to worry ‘bout me,” is all he says, running a thumb over the back of Babe’s smooth knuckles.

“I do anyway. What d’you want from me? I’m your friend.” Babe shakes his head, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Buddies take care of each other.” 

Gene tilts his head. “Is that all we are?  _ Buddies? _ ” The way he says the word, you’d think it was in a different language. Babe laughs out loud.

“I dunno, Gene. I got plenty of those, but I’d rather not hold Bill close at night. Maybe Spina, cause he’s a cuddler, and he don’t mutter in his sleep like  _ some _ people —“

Gene pinches him, just hard enough to make Babe’s pale forearm flush. Babe lets out a squawk, twisting away. He’s laughing loud enough to wake the dead, drowning out the whistle of the breeze and the birds in the trees. When his hand swings out blind, it almost catches Gene in the ear. Gene catches it instead, and presses his lips to Babe’s open palm.

When Babe turns, his grin is bright. His eyes are blue, and there’s a spot of red near his temple.

“Catching a fella while he’s down, huh? That ain’t fair, Gene.”

Gene doesn’t answer. His gaze is fixed on Babe, intent. Slowly, the tiny spot of red begins to move. Only as it’s trickling down Babe’s forehead, rolling past his brow, does Gene realize.

“Babe,” he says suddenly, earnest, cupping his face with his hand.

Babe blinks at him. “Yeah? What’s wrong?”

Every word seems to summon a little more. It’s not just a drop, now, but a trickle, staining Babe’s auburn hair bright red as it rolls down the side of his face. From a trickle to a stream, and from a stream to a river. In seconds, blood is soaking the side of Babe’s face, drowning his freckles and leaking onto his collar.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Gene clamps down on blind panic, forcing his brain to settle. Not a disaster — just another injury, another wound to bandage. “You’re just bleeding a little, it’s f—“

Except it’s not fine. There’s more blood every second, and he’s bleeding hard.  _ Head wounds always bleed a lot,  _ Gene reminds himself… but that doesn’t make it any better to  _ see _ up close. He fumbles around Babe’s face like a blind man, searching for the gash along his hairline — but there’s nothing. No cuts, no scrapes, no bumps or bruises. Nothing he can see…

“Calm down!” Babe is trying to say, but there’s no such thing as calm. How can he be calm — how can Babe be calm, when he’s bleeding like a goddamn fountain, when it’s on Gene’s hands and on the grass and everywhere, when —

When there’s a hole in Babe’s skull, exactly the shape of a bullet wound, and oily brain matter exposed underneath.

Gene recoils. He lands on his ass in the grass, catching himself too late to avoid jolts of pain shooting through his wrists. The more he scrambles, the more the ground beneath him slips away. He can’t tell if he’s fumbling in mud, or —

His breaths come ragged. Someone’s wheezing, there’s a rattle, they’re drowning on dry land with no way to help. His chest is heaving, and he’s seen men with ribs shattered in so many pieces that their lungs turn to Swiss cheese, but he never knew what it  _ felt like _ ‘til —

“Easy.”

It’s Babe. He’s here. Babe, with his face covered in blood, and his skull blown out… but his eyes impossibly calm, and his gaze steady.

He reaches out, finding Gene with one eager hand. Gene doesn’t pull away. He’s limp and dizzy, chest convulsing. The breaths he need won’t come into his lungs, and panic pummels his chest like grenade blasts.

Through it all, there’s Babe.

“Hey — hey, Gene.” He holds his head steady, hands behind his neck, capturing his gaze with as much determination. Blood drips from his brow in fat crimson drops. Babe’s eyes are blue, and black, and blue again. “Okay, okay. Just look at me.”

Gene is looking. He’s looking like it’s all he knows how to do.

“I wanna stay here,” he breathes, though he doesn’t know why.

“I know you do.” Something twists on Babe’s face. It’s a lot like regret. “I wish we had more time.”

“I could stay. I don’t gotta go back, if we just held our breath and stayed —“

Babe holds him like he never wants to let him go… but Gene can feel him pulling away, little by little. Soon there’ll be nothing left. Gene will be alone again.  _ God _ , he doesn’t want to be alone…

“You know we can’t do that. You gotta go now.”

Why? Why does he have to? Why does he get to be happy for a minute, feel peace for only a few seconds, and then —

“I’ll be here when you come back,” says Babe. His voice echoes, like he’s on the other side of a tunnel, away. Gene reaches out for him, but finds empty air. The meadow is melting away, the blue sky and towering tree dissolving like a watercolor painting left to run. The colors bleed together into a blur, then fizzle out entirely. All at once, Gene feels numb. He’s not sure when Babe stopped holding him, or when he himself let go.

“Babe,” he calls out, voice ragged.

Babe says something else — he  _ knows _ he idoes — but whatever it is gets lost in the blur, and the dissolving of it all.

* * *

Gene opens his eyes to a world painted in shades of grey.

He fumbles for a second — to get his bearings, to rub warmth into his frozen hands — but when he looks around, it’s impossible not to know where he is. The foxhole is empty. Above him, lit by fast-descending winter twilight, the trees cast emaciated skeletons against a desolate sky. When Gene takes a deep breath, it stings his lungs. He breathes out and watches it fog in front of him.

He couldn’t have been asleep for more than twenty minutes, but it felt like a lifetime.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you’re just listening to folklore and suddenly need a shot of undiluted baberoe _straight_ to your carotid
> 
> y’all can interpret this however you like


End file.
